


Going on Retreat

by richardisroger91



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dollhouse Fusion, F/M, Inspired by Dollhouse, Post-Dollhouse, References to Dollhouse (TV), The Attic (Dollhouse)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richardisroger91/pseuds/richardisroger91
Summary: Two agents of Little Britain go on retreat.
Kudos: 1





	Going on Retreat

“Come on, Kenneth, we have to try to get out of here.”

Using what strength I had left, I raised my head. It revealed the same predicament we’d been in for the last few hours, despite Sarah’s optimistic hopes for escape. We were strapped down to individual stationary operating tables. There was a steel table filled with instruments between us. In a corner, a monitor produced an endless stream of readings. Attached to both Sarah’s and my self’s arms were a series of needles, wires, and electrodes.

“Snap out of it, Kenny!” Sarah barked at me. She was straining against her straps. A nerve twitched in her forehead and her veins protruded grotesquely. I was impressed with her stamina. She acted as though her body wasn’t being flooded with the same drugs that were in my mine. My head throbbed. Maintaining consciousness required what little strength was left to me. I tried to remember how we had ended up in this situation.

We had just finished dining with Lady Patricia and her husband. It had been five hours of food, dancing, and political discussions with various nobles and dignitaries. Most of my evening had been spent in conversation with the Lord Darius. He had been of the opinion that food revolts of the Venezuela Kingdom could be peacefully resolved if Queen Maduro would merely extend the rights of petroleum production to the various foreign powers exerting price controls, lessening trade, and other economic tactics.

“For example,” he had said, “If the Confederate States would remove their sanctions from us, we’d be able to cheaply import thousands of pounds of wheat and grain, effectively flooding our markets with food again. Since their switch from primarily industrial workings to agricultural productions under President Martinez 70 years ago, they’ve become number one in the world for food production. Their rates for unemployment and homelessness have dropped by 85 percent. But do we get any of their exports? No. It all goes to the European Alliance and Little Britain. Why? It’s because we refuse to allow them access to our petroleum. Sometimes, I feel like that rebel Arreaza has the right idea: Maybe it’s time to move from a monarchy to a republic.”

He had shaken his head sadly when I had professed my shock and dismay at such treasonous words.

“Do don’t go on so, dear Kenneth. No treason is occurring here; we’re just two friends talking, aren’t we?”

He had quickly changed the discussion to more amiable matters for the remainder of the evening. The stars had been shining brightly as Sarah and I had left. Smoke from the lower-caste Quarters lightly strayed across the air. All was clean and serene in the Regent Quarter. We were making small talk and Sarah had been giggling obsessively from too much wine. They had come out from nowhere seemingly. A vanguard of soldiers, they all wore the insignia of Her Majesty on their jet-black, skin-tight suits. They put in one the idea of ninjas from the Shogun’s territories. We had no time to resist or scream for help. We were held down and forcibly administered some kind of shot. The stars blinked at us, and I saw no more.

The opening of the room’s door interrupted my musings. Sarah slowed her struggle but not by much. Three doctors garbed in the sterile, clinical whites of the profession were followed in by a man and women dressed in the darkest, most pristine business attire I’d ever seen. They wore an identical ruby pin on their lapels. The man stood next to Sarah and the woman took a position next to my head. The doctors busied themselves with a large cart. A device of plastic, steel and a large monitor stood on it. One doctor began attaching electrodes to our heads as the other two began put a series of prompts into the monitor’s touch screen.

“Both agents have both been fully briefed and interrogated, yes?” the woman next to me asked of the doctors. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the 2015 debriefing failure, would we?”

I let my head thump against my table; I no longer had any strength left. The woman smoothed my hair back with an almost kindly touch.

“Haven’t…been….interrogated.” I managed to moan out. “We’re…loyal citizens.”

“We know that you are, my good man.” The black suited man next to Sarah said. He looked down on to her still struggling form.

“Sarah,” he said, “Would you like to go on a retreat?”

Sarah’s demeanor shifted instantly. Her veins relaxed and the blood faded from her face as she ceased struggling. A slight smiled graced her face. She didn’t even flinch when the doctor attached electrodes to her forehead.

“Anyways,” he continued as though nothing odd had just occurred, “You wouldn’t remember interrogation. All part of your wonderful programming.”

“Yes,” said the woman still stroking my hair. “But he’s been acting odd at his last few debriefings. I think I’ll check to make sure that his parameter’s for his next mission took.”

She bent closer and looked deeply into my eyes.

“Kenneth,” she said in a genteel voice. “Operation Beta. Dolphin. Rain. Recall.”

The words made no sense. Yet, I could feel them drifting deeper into my mind.

“I am Marcus Sanchez, a citizen of the Confederate States. I live in the Capital City of Richmond. I work as Under-Secretary of Defense. I am married to Rachel Sanchez, and we have no children.”

“Good.” The woman patted my head. “Operation Alpha. Dolphin. Rhino. Recall.”

Once again the words flowed from me instinctively.

“To gain pertinent information about the Confederacy’s defense systems and strategies to better enable their use in the defense of Little Britain.”

“He seems like everything took well,” said the man beside Sarah. “You want to double check and see if the parameters for this assignment are still there? Losing memories before a wipe is no good either.”

The woman nodded curtly at him. “Operation Omega. Squirrel. Black. Recall.”

“My mission is to gather intelligence on the Lady Patricia and Lord Darious. Both are suspected to be loyal to the rebel Arreaza. His followers cannot be allowed to put him into power as he is known to be actively campaigning for conquering Little Britain as part of his would-be world empire.”

“You’ve done very well, Kenneth.” The woman stroked my head again.

“Everything seems to be well,” she said to her male colleague. “His unusual behavior at other debriefings may simply be due to the fact that he hasn’t had any time off between assignments lately.”

“True,’’ concurred the man. “He and Sarah are Queen Diana’s two best agents. But I’m sure they’ll have time off soon.”

“I hope so,” one of the white clad doctors interrupted. “They need to have time to rest in their original minds and not just our integrated ones. Otherwise, permanent brain damage can occur.”

“We know,” said Kenneth’s woman. “Matilda can only be used in non-life threatening engagements anymore. Her cortex can’t handle any more complicated integrations.”

“We’re ready.” The doctor said quietly.

“How would you like to go on a retreat, Kenneth?” the woman asked, looking deeply into my eyes again.

I knew that I craved a retreat immensely the moment that she asked me. I relaxed instantly, and I no longer minded the situation I was in.

The doctors moved quickly around behind me. There was a large flash of light, and then…

“Do you remember who you are?” A white clad doctor was looking at me with concern.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. My words slurred and I knew that the doctors were probably having a hard time understanding me. Everyone in these southern countries said that Rachel and I spoke with strong accents, a mark of our Virginian heritages. “My name is Marcus. What happened?”

“Car accident on your way to the airport,” a severe looking woman in black interrupted the doctor. “You’re Mister Sanchez, yes?”

I nodded an affirmative.

“Well, you and your wife,” I smiled at Rachel sitting on the other table who had a hand pressed to her head, “suffered minor concussions in the accident and were brought in for a quick exam.”

“I assume we’ll be allowed to go?” I asked the woman who must have been a Venezuelan agent. “Or do we have to pay any sort of fine or something?”

“Of course not,” said the male agent who was helping Rachel to her feet. “Queen Maduro has enjoyed your visit to our kingdom immensely. She assigned us to your escort to help you back to the Confederate States the moment she heard you were in accident.”

“Are you ready to go, Mr. Undersecretary?” the female agent asked me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I stood and took Rachel by the arm as we began to walk out the room. “A retreat is always great, but can’t keep the Confederacy safe if I always went on one.”

The dark-suited woman smiled knowingly at me.


End file.
